Go Ask Alice
by goodbye blue monday
Summary: I started writing this story years ago, then ended up posting the first chapter as a stand alone. I've now been hit by inspiration again, so have written another chapter and plan to continue. Please review.
1. Ask Alice

"Why did you lie to me Alice?" He asks, leaning forward, breathing all over me. As is to be expected, he is talking to me like I'm a child.  
  
"I didn't lie to you detective Kowalski. I embellished." I explain casually. Not patronisingly like some people seem intent on doing. I hate being patronised.  
  
"Do you know what your little embellishment cost me Alice? Do you?" He seems to be getting angry now. There's this vein in the middle of his head, and it's starting to stick out like it always does when he's mad. And he's starting to go all red. Getting mad does nothing for the complexion.  
  
"No." I answer, deciding that the meek approach is the best way to calm him down.  
  
"An entire goddamn day! A whole day, wanderin' around this city, talkin' to scum like you for nothing." He screams the first part, and his spit lands in my face. Why do people always have to scream right in your face when they get mad? I mean, fine, get mad, yell, whatever, just don't spray it all over me.  
  
"Well you don't have to spit all over me!" I yell back. This not a have bee the best approach because he stands up now and starts pacing around the room running his hand through his bizarre hair.  
  
"Alice. I want the truth, and I want it now. If you don't tell me the truth, then I'm going to turn you in. Do you understand?" He's leaning against the table now, right in front of me. His arms are actually pretty muscular, considering how skinny he looks. I mean, if he was offering money, I probably wouldn't say no.  
  
This is not the time to be thinking about muscular detectives. And maybe I should try to get my mind of the job, considering I'm semi-under arrest and all.  
  
"You wouldn't." I ask, warily because I know he would. You can't trust anyone, especially cute detectives who offer you money and food and pretend they don't want anything in return then drag you into the precinct to answer lots of questions that could get you killed.  
  
"You wanna try me?" He asks, tipping his head. I glare. The Head-tipping thing is an attempt at cute, and almost worked. Emphasis on the almost.  
  
"Do you have any idea what would happen to me if you do that?" I ask him. He doesn't. He thinks he does but he doesn't. These detective types, they think they know it all.  
  
"I know exactly what'll happen to you. They'll send you to a foster home and you won't be able to sell your body to strangers on the street any more. You'll even have to go to school, and you won't have to worry about your pimp beating you into a pulp." He says, thinking he's funny. He doesn't know about the last foster home I was in though, so it's best to let him think he's right. I heard some foster homes are nice with people who genuinely want kids and care about them. In others you end up with a fat alcoholic guy who beats and rapes you and only wants the money. It's not like adoption where they only give kids to nice people. Detectives, or any other cops for that matter, always try so hard to convince themselves that the system works. The ones that know it doesn't are usually the ones that come to me and, shall we say, acquire my services. Once you see how jaded life is, there's really not much else to do, besides give in.  
  
"Do you know what he'll do to me if I tell you?" I ask him. Again, he has no idea. The whole jaded immoral cops, and la la land good guys thing again. This time, I think it would be better to haul him out of la la land. "I'll tell you. He would have me killed. In a slow, hideous way, probably involving knives and definitely involving lit cigarettes."  
  
"Not if I put him in jail." He says, still leaning on the table with his muscular arms and breathing all over me. Some cops, the beautifully anti- jaded ones, think they know everything. They think life is all one big John Wayne movie and once you kill the villain, everything will be okay. I don't know how someone so old could possibly be so naive. I'm sixteen, and even I know that's bullshit.  
  
"I can't!" I tell him. I actually sound quite whiney. I wonder if I always sound like that. He doesn't seem to like this answer either because he's gone out. He's probably talking to the Canadian guy. Every time I say something he either likes very, very much or really, really hates, he and the Mountie go and hold a conference in the corner. I'm not invited. Now, I have to sit here in this damn interview room, which is bland and hideous, and do nothing. He won't even let me smoke on account of me being underage and not telling him what he wants to know. The Mountie walks in now. His name is Benton Fraser, but Detective Kowalski calls him Fraser, for some strange reason you must have to be a cop to comprehend. They all do it. Call each other by last names. It's very impersonal and I would hate it if people started calling me Anderson all the time.  
  
"Hello Alice." The Mountie says, sitting down across from me.  
  
"Hi Constable Fraser." I reply, because it's expected. I wait for him to launch into a story. The last time, he told me this great story about coming to Chicago on the trail of his Father's killers. He wasn't going to embellish on it but I asked. I like Constable Fraser because he told me I was very articulate, and on account of the fact that he didn't spit on me.  
  
"Detective Kowalski tells me your reluctant to reveal the location of Mr Grant because you're afraid for your safety." He says. I raise my eyebrows.  
  
"Yeah, that's pretty accurate." I tell him. He's articulate too. It means, basically, that you explain things in such a way that no one knows what the hell you're talking about.  
  
"You know, if you testify against him, he'll go to jail. We'll make sure he never harms you again." He informs me. Once again, cops with the John Wayne bullshit.  
  
"He has people. Lots of them. And he'd get out on bail. That's when I'm guessing he'd kill me." I say patronisingly. I really shouldn't patronise people, especially this guy who's smarter than most. But, I get nervous, I talk in simple, accurate sentences. It's gotten me into trouble before.  
  
"Detective Kowalski and I will make sure that you are harmed in no way." He explains to me solemnly, with big brown, expressive eyes. Men all have expressive eyes that beg you to trust them, until they screw you, both figuratively and literally.  
  
"Well, that's fine, until the trial is over. Then, even if he is put away, which is seriously doubtful since you guys have zilch and nobodies gonna believe me, he has people who will make sure I die slowly. And you can tell Kowalski I'm not going back into care either. He can forget it. And if I have to run away from another foster home, there's no way I'm ever ratting out another small timer either. I don't care if he has condoms and food." I explain, getting very, very angry. The Mountie looks very embarrassed and confused. I think it's the condoms that did it. "He gives me the condoms for other people. It's not like he's a customer." I add, trying to make the Mountie feel better, and kind of wish I hadn't said it. The confusion goes, but he looks even more embarrassed now, so I decide to give up. The Mountie sighs, but things get quite exciting as Kowalski bursts in.  
  
"Look, you little punk!" He says, slamming his hands down on the desk and screaming into my face, with, I may add, a record amount of spitting. "Tell me where he is! The son of a bitch is out there right now peddling dope to seven year olds, and that's your fault." He informs me. Personally, I find that accusation highly insulting.  
  
"Fuck you, you son of a bitch!" I scream at him, which is possibly not the wittiest of retorts, but effective. "And by the way, this good cop bad cop bullshit is totally not working. And stop fucking spitting on me!" Sometimes, I wish I could come something better than the average, angry sixteen year old retort, but I'm mad as hell right now.  
  
And I'm really sick of him spitting on me. This, however, has invoked another conference in the corner. They're whispering to each other. This, I imagine, can only be the inevitable deal. When their little meeting breaks, they'll suggest I go live in Utah with some nice Amish folks under a false name and with no connections to Chicago. The wonder that is the Witness Protection Program. All I can say is ick, and that isn't even a word.  
  
"Okay. " Kowalski eventually says, slouching into the chair opposite me.  
  
"I'm not going into the Witness Protection Program." I say with my arms folded across my chest, and my best "is that the best you got" expression on my face. This was DEFINITLEY the wrong thing to say because now he's up, stomping around going "Fuck, fuck, fuck!" which in my opinion is unacceptable language to be using in front of such a young, impressionable girl. The Mountie looks uncomfortable. I wonder if they have cursing in Canada. Kowalski eventually calms down and slumps into the chair with his forehead on the table and his head in his hands.  
  
"Okay, look, Alice." He says from that position. I can barely understand him, but now he lifts his head, which is better. "I know you had a rough time in the foster homes in the past, but I'll make sure your okay this time. I swear." He practically begs.  
  
"What the hell would you know?" I ask him petulantly. I know I'm being petulant because I've gone all pout. It's not like I'm happy With this turn in my emotions, but what can I say? Hormones are delightful.  
  
"I know you were raped. And I know he used to beat you up if you didn't get up at six am to cook breakfast, or even if he just had a bad day." He explains openly, which comes as a real surprise to me. I had no idea he knew that stuff. "How do I know?" He asks, reading my expression. I nod weakly. I don't think I could talk right now. I didn't think another living soul knew, aside from the son of a bitch who did it to me. "I'll tell you when you tell me." He says.  
  
"Screw you." I tell him in a small, cracking voice. I feel like I may cry in a minute, which is a very rare and very bad thing.  
  
"Alice, c'mon." It's his turn to whine now, and he does it rather well. "I know you're a good kid. You helped me put away all those other guys because of the children, why not this guy?"  
  
"The other guys were nothings. Little insignificant pushers. Jack is totally different. I can't do this Detective Kowalski. I'm sorry, but I can't." I explain, cutting him off, which is very rude but necessary. I have to make him understand. He sighs and looks at the Mountie. They nod at each other and Kowalski leaves. The Mountie wanders around for a little while then sits down.  
  
"Alice." He says, making eye contact. This is a cop trick. He's trying to break me.  
  
"No." I say. I want to tell them where Jack is. I really do. Jack is my pimp. Not only that, he's a drug dealer. He gives drugs indiscriminately. Seven-year-old kids outside of grade schools, forty-year-old businessmen, you name it. Jack supplies them with all the poison they need. That's why this Kowalski bastard needs me. He's not really a bastard. I'm sure he is, in fact, a really sweet guy. But that don't help me any.  
  
"I'm leaving." I inform the Mountie, who immediately stands up. I push past him towards the door. Kowalski bursts in and decides I'm "Goin' nowhere"  
  
"You want to book me with something detective? Fine. You do that. We both know it ain't gonna make a difference. And if you book me, we're through. " I explain as rationally as I can. He opens his mouth and closes it again, kind of like a fish. It would actually be pretty funny if I wasn't trying not to cry so desperately. "Not just with Jack either. Everything. I won't even tell you if your underwear's showing. I'm sorry about those kids. Really. But I don't need to be chained to a radiator for a week. Again." I push past him. He watches me walk down the hall with his mouth open. He won't do anything though. He acts tough, but he knows what'll happen to me if I don't go back. It sucks, but it's true.  
  
This is my life. Don't you just love it? 


	2. Crusaders

Kowalski looked down at her and felt his stomach tie itself in a knot. He had heard the expression over and over again, mostly uttered by overly dramatic bystanders, but never really come across it himself. But here it was now. The all singing, all dancing version. He knew he wouldn't throw up, never had. And he'd seen a lot worse than this. It was a close run thing though. Closer even than he imagined. Sixteen. He tried to ignore it, but his mind kept coming back to it again and again. She was sixteen, this sallow, dead thing chained to a radiator in a dingy downtown apartment. He kept remembering when he was sixteen, spooning on the couch with Charlene Gionaucci with the worlds worst case of blue balls, wishing she wasn't so catholic. Now he was looking down on the body of a kid the same age who had been abused so many times, spooning on the couch at sixteen would have been met with a callous, indignant laugh. If it had been Alice rather than Charlene all those years ago, she would have been taking his pants off and quoting her price before they even sat down. Now this. He saw the marks and his mind tried to deny the knowledge of what they were but it was no good. He had seen a thousand cigarette burns on a thousand victims. He knew. The other marks he knew as well. Pliers, one that looked like the raw, gaping hole that could only be made with a drill. Or maybe he was being optimistic there. It could have been a screwdriver. One would take seconds; the other would have taken maybe fifteen minutes, maybe an hour. There was blood on her thighs too, high up on the inside. He knew what caused that too, was piercingly aware of it. And he knew that even Alice, who had gone through maybe six customers a night for a long, long time would have felt empty, used and violated by it. He wondered if she had tried to scream. She couldn't have of course. They had found her tongue in the kitchen. It had been removed long before the blood got on her thighs. Part of him wondered if she had been strangled before that, a cut so deep her head was almost separated from her body. Razor wire, undoubtedly. He hoped desperately that it had, but doubted it all the same.

"Jesus." Came a whispered voice from his right. He looked around at a blue suit. No more than twenty-one. So wet behind the ears it practically dripped down his neck. He looked utterly appalled. This was either his first, or close enough for it not to matter. Ray felt a sudden burst of longing so hard it almost floored him. To be that naïve. As much as the sight of Alice's pale, almost decapitated body filled him with pity, as they always did, and as much as it made him sick, which they did less and less these days, he did not feel he was doing her emotional justice. He had known her very well. Had spoken to her two weeks ago, had yelled at her, called her names. And still he couldn't muster up the raw, almost physical, pain and horror he saw on this rookie's face. He had seen too much. Friend or not, sixteen or not, Alice was just another dead hooker. Another whodunit where they knew _exactly_ whodunit, where to find him, his social security number, everything. But they couldn't prove it. Never could.

"I know." He said anyway, because in a way he did. He could remember himself at twenty-one. Could almost feel the emotions that had coursed through him when looking down on his first mutilated teenager. Almost. Not quite though. "Anyone find out her name yet?" He asked in a voice that sounded harsh, too officious. The rookie stared at him, vague and confused as only the newest of cops could be. This was his first. No doubt about it.

"Don't you? The Sarge said-."

"Her real name." He barked, more aggressive than he meant to be. The kid flinched. Ray felt bad about that, but he continued regardless. "It sure as hell wasn't Alice. We always knew that. She changed it so much we never did figure it out."

"But you checked out her records. It was Julie, wasn't it?"

"No. They called her Julie when she first went into care. New name for a new life. Her mother insisted" He smirked a little at that. Alice had gone through at least five new lives, that they knew of. "Maybe if I'd checked harder. But I didn't. We need the name on her birth certificate."

"I'll go make some calls. Try to find out." The rookie seemed relieved at the excuse to get away. Ray let him go. Something inside him, some twisted thing, almost made him call the kid back. Make him stand here over a child only, at most, five years younger than he, while Ray made the calls, searched it up, as he should've done already, when he first tried to use her as a witness rather than just an informant. He couldn't make the kid stay. He needed to leave, and Ray was sure that although that need was very strong, there was also part of him that wanted to stay. To watch over her. But the desire to leave was stronger. If he stayed, eventually it wouldn't be. Ray had seen it before, and it never went well. They turned into crusaders, trying to save every victim in the city and destroying themselves in the process. Ray knew the kid would never find her real name. She had buried it too deep. He would dig it up himself when the homicide boys got here and made him leave. For now, he was content to stay, looking down on her like a guardian angel. And wondering how he could get her vengeance.


End file.
